


Awkward

by KBeautimous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Awkwardness, Case Fic, Dean Being an Idiot, Dean Doesn't do Feelings, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, One Shot, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex, Social Anxiety, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-20 20:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13725093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KBeautimous/pseuds/KBeautimous
Summary: You don't really work with other hunters. You actively avoid them, actually.Well, okay. Maybe it's more liketheyavoidyou.Whatever. The point is, you tend to work alone.





	Awkward

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storyline of the TV show Supernatural, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella.  
> \- Thanks to the Sister Husbands, who are my best friends in the whole world, and happen to be gracious enough to also beta most of my works for me. I don't know what I'd do without you girls, but I certainly wouldn't be doing this.  
> \- Oh, just another reader insert that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. That's fine. IT'S NOT LIKE I HAD THINGS TO DO. Also, for the record, it was supposed to be a 5k word one-shot with some fluff and some smut and some fun. That's... Not what happened.

“You know, Mr. Meyers, for a dude who had such a normal life, you are _really fucking up the afterlife.”_

You roll as the vengeful spirit attacks you again, and you come up hard against a huge tombstone. “Fucking ghosts,” you mutter, shoving another salt round into your gun, desperately trying to get back to the grave you’ve got mostly dug up. The ghost is more experienced than you’d thought he’d be. He used the wind to blow a break into the salt line you poured in a circle around the grave as a precaution. _Safer my ass._ “Shit shit _shit!”_

The vengeful spirit of Mr. Joe Meyers, who was a _literal_ average Joe when he was alive, appears before you and lunges. You roll, snarling, and manage to just barely avoid being tackled. You push yourself onto your back, kicking your legs desperately to scoot yourself away. You bring the gun up, do some semblance of aiming, and pull the trigger.

The ghost dissipates with a growl, but you don’t take time to bask in the victory. You scramble to your feet and jog back over to the grave, hopping in with no hesitation.

A soft voice in your ear chuckles. “Feel better?”

You roll your eyes. “Not really, no.” You grab the shovel and start whaling on the lid of the coffin.

“I wish you’d get a partner,” Anya frets into the earpiece you’re wearing. “Hunting alone is dangerous. And stupid.”

“Yeah, I know, An,” you grunt, finally breaking through the lid. _Damn these noodly arms._ You have no idea how you’ve managed to stay so physically inept when you’ve been hunting for so long. “All right, we’re in.” You pull a giant canister of salt from one of the many pockets of your canvas coat and spread it liberally over the skeleton, as much of it as you can through the rather good-sized hole you created. Once done, you put the salt back and scramble out of the grave, finally rolling onto your back once you’re out.

“I hate ghosts,” you groan, sitting up and fumbling for a book of matches.

“I know, babe,” Anya coos over the phone, “but you’re doing great.”

“Eat me, An.” You produce the lighter fluid from another pocket and squirt it into the grave, wrinkling your nose at the distinct smell and _noise_ that it makes.

“So rude.”

“A life on the road will do that to you,” you say loftily, striking the matches and dropping them onto the body. You pull yourself out of the joking mood for a second. “Rest in peace, Mr. Meyers,” you say softly.

“Sometimes I wonder how you do it,” Anya says, just as gentle in your ear. “You’re always so forgiving, even when they’re vengeful spirits.”

The coffin doesn’t seem to be catching. You frown as you lean over to investigate. “Not always their fault. Sometimes they-“

You’re cut off by an otherworldly screech as the spirit of Mr. Joe Meyers picks you up and sends you sailing through the cemetery and into a headstone. You hit the stone hard, cracking your head and feeling something creak in your back ominously as pain explodes through your entire body. You fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes and groan.

“Y/N? Y/N! _Y/N!”_ Anya is crying out in your ear, which is _not_ helping the pounding in your head, but you let her do it because you love her, and God knows it’s not like you could stop her, anyway.

You whimper and lift your head in time to see, by some miracle, that the coffin has _finally_ caught fire, and the ghost burns up with a wail and the crisp sound that spirits sometimes get when they go. You let yourself drop back down and groan some more, the pain in your head thudding rhythmically.

“’M okay, An,” you mutter.

“Oh, thank _Christ,”_ she says fervently.

“Yeah, yeah, he did me a real solid.” You drag yourself to your feet, using the ridiculously ornate headstone you hit to steady you. One hand on the stone, you use the other to probe the back of your head, wincing when you hit the already-forming goose egg there. There are smears of blood on your fingers when you pull them away. _“Shit.”_

“Are you okay?” The anxiety is heavy in Anya’s voice.

“I will be. Nothing a Tylenol and maybe a shot of whiskey won’t fix.”

“… You should absolutely not be drinking when you have a concussion.”

You roll your eyes and take a tentative step. Okay, so the world definitely rocks back and forth for a second, but it settles quickly enough, and you decide that you’re good to go back to the car. You gather your things slowly, listening to Anya fret and insist that you go to the hospital as you make your way back to the car.

“Listen,” you say, finally catching her in a moment of silence. “I’m gonna be fine, but I gotta get off of here, okay?”

“I hate this,” she whispers, and you know it’s the truest thing she’s said tonight. “I hate that you’re alone.”

“I know, An, but I’m all right. I won’t drink, I’ll grab some food and go right to the motel room.” She draws in a breath, and you speak before she can. “I won’t go to sleep, I’ll stay awake and catch up on _Dr. Sexy._ I’ll take a cold shower, put on my ‘comfort sweats,’ and drink exclusively water until morning, at which point I will call you immediately after seven, and then I will sleep all day.” You smile a little as you throw your bag into the backseat. “Deal?”

There are a few beats of silence, then a frustrated huff. _“Fine._ But don’t think you’ve gotten out of this discussion, missy.”

You push a lock of hair out of your face. “I wouldn’t dream of being under the impression that I’ve escaped this talk.”

* * *

You don’t feel guilty at all when you pull into the parking lot of the bar you scoped out earlier today. You shrug off your big canvas coat, wrap it up into a ball, and shove it under the passenger seat. You check, but the long-sleeved shirt you’re wearing is low-cut enough to be considered normal to wear to the kind of bar you’re going into. You do a quick sniff test to make sure you don’t smell like a graveyard, and when you just get a hint of smoke, you call it good, sling your bag over your shoulder, and go in.

Bar food is still food, you rationalize, and pounding headache or no, you want to eat a burger the size of your face, and you’re not willing to compromise.

Lying to Anya isn’t your favorite thing to do, but she has some… Issues. They make her a little more cautious than most people. It’s not her fault, you think as you pull a beanie out of your bag and pull it on to cover what might be a bloody mark on the back of your head, but it can be a little overbearing. All you want is good food and a shot of whiskey to take the edge off. Then you’ll go back to the motel and relax.

You keep your head down and scope the place out. There aren’t very many people here right now, which makes you think it’s a weekday (you don’t really keep track, it’s not like you work a nine-to-five). There’s a couple at one of the tables up front, probably married, if the way they mirror one another’s body language and attire is any indication (and if the blatant adoration in his eyes when he looks at his wife makes something deep in your chest ache, that’s your business alone). There’s a man sitting at the bar facing away from you, nursing a beer. He looks rough, he’s probably only fifty, but the deep creases in his face and the long streaks of gray in his hair makes him look closer to seventy. There’s a few guys playing pool in the back, but you don’t care enough to look over there to really get a good read on them. You’re not here to hustle, you’re here to eat and run.

You choose the furthest table from the door, facing the entrance as you sit. Your bag stays on the bench next to you, and while you wait for a server, you pull out a leather-bound journal and a pen.

You started writing about every case as a way to remember details about monsters. Now that you’ve been doing it for a few years, it’s more of a way to remember details about people. The low, dim lighting makes it hard to see the page so you can write, but you persevere.

_“Joe Meyers was an accountant. He was a pretty plain-looking guy, was probably on his way to a pot belly if he didn’t start working out. I don’t have any concrete proof, but there were rumors that his wife had him killed so she could run away with her boyfriend. Dunno about the murder part, but she definitely remarried pretty fucking quick. Maybe that’s why he hung around._

_Today, I saved the woman who lives in their old apartment._

_She’s twenty-two, and a single mother. The kid’s cute, four years old, name is Joey, ironically enough. Girl’s name is Katherine. She likes classic literature, chocolate eclairs, and she’s_ _alive because of me.”_

The server approaches as you finish underlining the last four words. “What can I getcha, baby?”

You look up at her and smile politely. She’s a stereotypical bar waitress. Dark, stringy hair pulled into a messy knot at the top of her head. Vibrant eye makeup that tries to cover up the wrinkles there. She’s _literally_ popping bubble gum as she holds her pen at the ready to take your order.

Her eyebrows raise, and you realize that you’ve been staring at her for a few seconds too long. _Damn._ “Cheeseburger, medium rare, _no_ onion, tater tots, a glass of water, and two shots of your top shelfiest whiskey, please.”

She smiles. “’Top-shelfiest?’”

A hated blush warms your cheeks, and you drop your eyes back to the table. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, hon. I’ll get your water and whiskey out to you, food’ll take a few.”

“Thank you.”

She walks away, tucking her notebook into her apron, and you resist the urge to groan and bang your head on the table. In your experience, that just draws more attention to how strange you are, and you _really_ don’t need _more_ attention. Plus, your damn head still hurts.

“Very smooth,” you mutter to yourself.

Instead of literally beating yourself up, you gather yourself and start to sketch Mr. Meyers’ ghost. You’re no artist, so it’s kind of lopsided, but it’s not really about recording exactly what he looked like. It’s more of a way to decompress, to try to shake off a headache and steadily growing pain in your spine, which you suspect is bruised. You’re just killing time until your food gets here, honestly.

As you do so, the door opens, and out of habit, you look up to see who’s entered.

“Jesus,” you groan, more of a whisper than an actual sound.

Two men, tall, and dear _God_ are they good-looking. They’re a little older than you, probably close to ten years older, but that doesn’t detract from their looks at _all._ The taller one, who’s probably six-four, has dark, shaggy hair, and an open, honest face.  The shorter one, although _short_ is a ridiculous thing to call him, is debilitatingly handsome, good grief. He’s wearing a leather jacket and a smirk that’s pretty much primed to mow down every girl (or boy, whatever he wants, really) in his path.

You quickly dart your eyes back down to your table as they approach. You panic internally for a moment before they slide into the booth just in front of yours. It puts you facing The Pretty One’s back, and The Tall One would be able to look at you if he peeked over his companion’s shoulder.

You’re already thinking that there’s no _way_ you’re going to be able to relax with two people sitting so close to you when they speak.

“Joe Meyers,” Tall says, “he was an accountant in the late twenties, lived in an apartment with his wife. Local legend says she killed him so she could fuck off with her boyfriend.”

“Bummer for Joe,” Pretty replies distractedly. He’s already looking at the menu. _Seriously, who looks at the menu in a bar?_

“Well, bummer for the girl living in that apartment. Some weird stuff’s been going on, police think she’s crazy.”

That’s true. Katherine was at her wit’s end when you showed up. That’s probably why she let you in with so little fuss, she just desperately needed someone to believe her.

“We’ll check it out tomorrow, Sammy,” Pretty says easily, putting the menu back into the little metal holder on the inside of the table.

Tall, or Sammy, frowns. “He’s been striking at night. We should go tonight.”

“What do you wanna do? Go _talk_ to her? She’s a single mom, Sam. ‘Oh, hi, please let us into your place, where you keep your kid, and let us talk to you about ghosts?’”

_Hey, it worked for me, didn’t it?_

Pretty scoffs. “No, Sammy, we’ll go tomorrow.”

An expression that can only be called a bitchface settles itself on Sam’s features. “I _meant_ we should go to the graveyard, Dean. Meyers’ burial is public record, I already know where he is.”

The name Dean, when said in relation to the name Sam, rings a couple of bells in your head, but you can’t quite place them. Either way, the two men in the booth next to you are hunters.

Which means you’ve gotta bail.

The waitress comes back as you’re putting your journal back into your bag. You smile again. “I’m so sorry, something’s come up. Do you think you could get that food boxed up for me when it comes out?”

She gives you a side-eye. “Sure thing, babe.”

She leaves your water and your shots. You take both of the whiskeys in quick succession, hissing through your teeth harshly as the warmth moves down your throat and explodes in your stomach. You close your eyes and shudder once, violently, then stack the shot glasses neatly next to your water glass. The whiskey hits you fast and hard, making the world soften at the edges, making it easier to sit here without fidgeting while your food gets wrapped up for you to go. You sip your water, not raising your eyes above the table.

“All right, all right, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Dean says, easy.

The server comes back shortly, and you hand her a wad of bills that probably doubles your total. “Thanks for being so accommodating,” you say haltingly.

You can see in her eyes that she probably thinks you’re weird, is kind of relieved that you’re leaving, but is willing to be extra nice to you because of the tip. You’re cool with that, you know that you’re a little… Off. She’s not telling you anything you weren’t already aware of.

As you maneuver out of the bar, carefully not looking at the hunters, you pull your earpiece out of your bag and put it on, clicking the speed-dial button on your phone to call Anya.

“Y/N! Are you at the motel?”

“Hunters,” you say shortly as you toss your stuff into the passenger seat and slide into your car. “I went to the bar and there are other hunters here after Meyers.”

Anya switches immediately into business mode. “How far do you wanna go?”

You sigh and rub your forehead. “I don’t know,” you say softly. “Just a different place, I guess. I’m beat, and I need to be close to work the case.”

“That’s what you get for going to a bar when you told your best friend that you’re going to bed,” Anya says primly, but you hear the rapid clicking of her fingers on the keyboard. “All right, you’re at something called the Starlite Tonite motel. Coordinates to your phone.”

“You’re a doll, An.”

“Yeah, yeah, but we’re having a _serious talk_ about your _habit of lying to me,”_ she says severely before she hangs up.

You sigh and start the car. You’re definitely in trouble now, if she had to go to the trouble of getting you a new room _and_ she found out that you lied to her. This is gonna take some blueberry muffins to make up for. You wonder when you’ll be swinging back by Montana so you can drop in.

As you leave the parking lot, your headlights hit a sleek black muscle car, and you slam on the breaks. You stare for a moment, breaking out into a light sweat.

_“Shit.”_

The Winchesters. Sam and Dean Winchester.

“Dude. _Dude…_ Dude.”

You ease your way out of the lot, suddenly a lot more grateful that you made it out of there without talking to either of them.

“The Winchesters, pretty as they may be, are the kind of trouble that you _cannot_ afford, girlfriend,” you mutter to yourself as you hit the road.

* * *

Very few things get by Dean Winchester. Oh, sure, some things might escape his notice, but the girl sitting behind him definitely didn’t.

He watches her walk out, head down, shoulders hunched. Her defensive posture does nothing to hide the sway of her hips, or to stop the running of his mind.

_Goddamn._

“Fuck’s sake, Dean,” Sam bitches. “Quit ogling women and focus on the case.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m focused,” Dean mutters, turning to smile at the waitress when she comes up. “Hiya, sweetheart. Can I get a burger, medium rare, fries, and whatever your favorite beer is?” The flirting comes second nature, but he’s still thinking about the slip of a girl who just walked out.

He doesn’t know why, she’s definitely too young for him, plus she didn’t look the least bit interested by the way she bolted. Maybe it’s just nice to think about a pretty girl in a bar for once. Maybe it’s nice not to think about his life, about how he’s going to fight the Darkness, about what he did when he was a demon. Maybe it’s nice to just… Think about a pretty girl in a bar.

The waitress smiles, but it’s strained. “Sure.” She turns to Sam. “What about you?”

“The chicken salad, please, and just a water.”

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother’s choice as the waitress walks away. “All right, let’s talk about this damn ghost.”

His thoughts remain with the girl.

* * *

_Surely not._

Dean is staring down at a grave that has been recently dug up and is currently full of ashes. He knows his mouth is hanging open, but… Come _on,_ the last attack was _last night._ Who was in town that they didn’t know about?

“Well, that’s a lucky break,” Sam says, but his speech is slow, dubious.

“Who the _hell?”_ Dean’s not actually mad, he’s just kind of surprised. And for some reason, he can’t stop thinking about the girl he saw in the bar.

_But… She was so young._

* * *

You finally settle down in the Starlite Tonite hotel. As soon as you get there, you know that Anya’s gone all out, because the room that you get is not only on the top floor, but it has a microwave _and_ a mini-fridge. She’s worried about you.

Anya’s what she calls a “technohunter.” She’s truly gifted when it comes to any kind of computers or software. When you need a motel room, she hacks their system and puts one of the rooms as “out of order,” which usually buys you a night. If you need more than a night, you’ve got a few stolen credit cards you can use, but once you use them, she hacks _their_ system and shows the bill as being paid immediately. It’s a good system, because you don’t like hustling pool, and it leaves you more time to actually work, which you prefer doing anyway.

She’s scary as hell, and you’re grateful she’s on your side.

You shut the door behind you, hit the deadbolt, lock the chain, and prop one of the chairs underneath the doorknob. Despite how exhaustion is pulling at all of your limbs, you take the time to ward the door and the window with chalk that’s easily washed off before you grab the bag of food and stick it in the microwave without turning it on. Then you strip, leaving your clothes in a trail to the bathroom, where you gingerly peel the beanie off and soak it in the sink. The water is already tinged red.

You take a moderately warm shower, not wanting to aggravate the blood flow seeping from your head. You try to be careful with the shampoo while you’re washing your hair, but it doesn’t matter, you still get some in your cut. You hiss and rinse it out quickly, then probe the edges. It’s not going to require stitches, but it will probably bleed on the pillow tonight.

_Not like I get to sleep anyway._

You stay in the shower longer than you need to. Once you’ve had enough and your fingers are pruny, you get out and make quick work of drying off (carefully, in the case of your hair). You walk back out into the bedroom nude and dig around in your bag until you find a too-big t-shirt and a pair of undies. Once you’re dressed, you turn the microwave on and wait for it to be done. Armed with warm food, you get onto the bed, turn the TV on to a rerun of _Dr. Sexy,_ and call Anya back on your earpiece.

“Heya, An,” you say easily when she answers. “Thanks for the digs. They’re nice.”

“Yeah, well, anything for you, Miss Concussion.” There’s no heat in her words, though, and it’s obvious that she’s smiling.

Even though she can’t see, you smile back. “And thanks for the short notice change. Sorry I’m a problem child.”

“What happened?”

You shrug and shove a tater tot into your mouth. “The Winchesters showed up.”

A beat of silence, then, _“Jesus._ Do you think… Was it maybe more than just a ghost, then?”

“Dunno. I mean, Mr. Meyers was the only one I saw, so my job’s done. If they’ve got something more complicated going on, they can deal with it themselves.”

“Were they dreamy?”

You grin. “Panty-melting. I don’t know how they get any work done, women must be throwing themselves at them all the time.”

“And were _you_ throwing yourself at them?”

“Ha, no. I’m not subjecting any of us to that."

“Aw, come on, Y/N…”

You don’t really hang out with other hunters. You actively avoid them, actually. Not because you don’t want a partner to hunt with, it would actually be amazing to get a partner, but it’s… You’re weird. Really weird. Like, you talk to yourself and you’re super awkward and you’re a giant dork. So, okay, maybe it’s more of a case of they avoid you. Whatever.

Either way, it’s a sore spot for Anya. You’ve accepted that you’re a little too strange for the general public, but she’s determined that there are people out there who will see your worth. You’re not overly concerned with what they think. You’re just here to save people and eat cheeseburgers the size of your head.

“Nope, I’m happy here with my bar food and my trashy TV. Just wanted to check in for the night.”

* * *

Your story mirrors almost every other hunter’s story.

You were normal. You had a single mother who worked too much and laughed too little, but she loved you fiercely and without end. You were a huge nerd, so you only had a few friends, but you were also kind of shy, so it was okay with you. You went to school and a football game or two and school dances.

You were normal.

Then you weren’t.

A vengeful spirit killed your mother while you were at the library. You got home to see her dead on the floor and a ghost coming to attack you. Bobby Singer saved your life that day. In the aftermath, when you had to figure out who you were in this new, terrifying world with monsters in it and without your mother, you weren’t sure whether to thank him or curse him.

When you tracked him down, you demanded that he teach you. When he told you to go back to living your life, you just stared at him until he rolled his eyes, cursed, and let you in.

You stayed with Bobby for a few weeks while he gave you a crash course in hunting. He paired you up with Anya, who has a similarly tragic backstory. He basically said, “You’re both too fuckin’ weird to work with anyone else, much as I love you girls.”

Okay, he didn’t _say_ those words out loud, per se, but you’re sure that was the sentiment.

Whatever the reason, it works for you. You’re out here, saving people, doing the right thing, killing monsters. It’s a little lonely, maybe, but you get to do some good in the world, and since you’re an acquired taste, you’ve adjusted to the loneliness.

* * *

Three weeks pass by peacefully.

There’s another vengeful spirit in Michigan, a ghoul in Tallahassee, and a vampire in Oregon.

Your head heals, and you have another scar to add to your collection.

When you hear rumors about a werewolf in Montana, you jump at the chance. It’s only a couple of hours away from Anya, and you need to go see her, anyway.

* * *

You’re staring at a coroner’s report that Anya stole and sent to you, frowning at the pictures of the dead girl over a cup of coffee.

“Talk to me, sister,” Anya chirps through the headset. “Walk me through the case.”

“Okay. Gina Florez, twenty-eight years old, Caucasian female. Killed three days ago. Cause of death was blood loss, presumably from the big-ass hole in her chest. Her heart is gone.”

“So… Werewolf?” There’s the clacking of Anya’s fingers flying over the keyboard. “Lunar cycle is right.”

“I would think so, but this is a little more… Ritualistic than they usually are.”

“How so?”

Anya and you frequently bounce ideas off of one another. It’s her way of making up for the fact that you don’t have a partner in the field, no matter how many times you insist that you’re fine. You let the ritual continue, though, because the two of you can usually find a solution somewhere in the back and forth.

You flip to a close up of the victim. “I don’t know. There’s some sort of symbol on her forehead.”

A couple of clicks, then, “Okay, I see it. Could it just be smeared blood?”

You shrug, even though she can’t see you. “Could be, but I’m getting the feeling that it was deliberately put there.”

“Huh. Why would werewolves do that?”

“They wouldn’t.” You heave a sigh. “I’m gonna have to go see the body.”

* * *

There are _reasons_ that you try to avoid people as much as possible when you’re working a case. It’s not because you don’t like them, you tend to like other people just fine. It’s that… Well, they don’t like _you._

You’re dressed in your Fed suit, which makes you feel like a little kid playing dress up with your mom’s clothes. A necessary evil, though, since officials are so rarely willing to talk to a girl in jeans and a hoodie. _Judgmental bastards,_ you think as you push your way into the coroner’s office.

You put a bland smile on your face and approach the desk. The guy behind it is probably a little younger than you. Dark hair, green eyes, skinny, pale as hell, clearly has a bad attitude. In another life, you’d be drawn to him, you’d want to be friends. You’ve always been drawn to people who buck the system, who do things like work in coroner’s offices to freak their families out, which is the vibe you get from this guy.

In this life, however, you’re a hunter, he’s a normie, and you have a job to do, so bland smile it is. You flip your badge open as soon as you get to the desk. Most people are looking at the badge more than they’re looking at you, so if you flash it first, they don’t notice how awkward you are.

Mostly.

...Usually.

“FBI,” you say smoothly. “Here to see Gina Florez.”

“Doc’s not in.” The kid is giving you absolutely nothing.

“Does he need to be?”

“Yup.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Nope.”

You feel your eye twitch a little, and amusement lights up in the guy’s eyes. _Dammit._

This is the point where someone who isn’t you would use their womanly wiles to get what she wants. Maybe flirt a little, make him feel special, like he’s the only one who can get her what she needs. Hell, even _Anya_ would probably be able to get him to get what she wants.

Unfortunately, you are you, and not someone else, and you’re vaguely convinced you don’t even have any womanly wiles to begin with. So, instead of batting your eyelashes at him, you pull out a wad of cash.

His eyes are glued to it immediately. You pull two fifties (hey, you don’t even stiff the people you _bribe)_ and place them on the desk. “You sure he needs to be there?”

He shrugs. “I guess I can go back with you instead.”

You pull off another fifty and lay it with the others. “No go, I need to go in by myself.”

He looks up and you and cocks an eyebrow. “You some kinda pervert?”

You blush a little and roll your eyes. “Do you _care?”_

He shrugs. “Guess not.” He grabs the hundred and fifty dollars and comes around the desk, motioning for you to follow him. “This way.”

He lets you into the morgue with an evaluating look, but leaves you alone after a few beats of uncomfortable silence. You roll your eyes again and pull your earpiece from your pocket. It takes half a ring for Anya to pick up.

Her first words are, “Did you seduce the morgue person to let you in?”

“I feel like the answer to that question is obvious.”

“Guy or girl?”

You find the drawer that Gina’s being kept in and open the heavy door. “Does it matter?”

“I mean, it never has before.”

“Then why ask?”

 _“Y/N,”_ she sighs dramatically. “I need the full picture.”

“Of how I bribed my way into a morgue to look at a dead body?”

 _“Jesus._ You’re so _literal.”_

You chuckle. “I know. No, I didn’t seduce him. He’s kinda cute, in that whole ‘I do what I want, fuck the police’ sort of way, but you know me. Couldn’t have flirted my way in if my life depended on it.”

“Aw, come on, sure you could have!”

“I just gave him money, An. I actually want to _see_ the body, not be escorted out because I’m too weird to function.” You gently pull the big drawer out of the cubby. Gina’s body is covered with a sheet.

Anya’s irritated sigh tells you exactly what she thinks of the indictment on your personal skills, but she’s apparently willing to let it go for now. “How much?”

“One-fifty.”

“For a _body?!”_

“For a _dead_ body,” you say cheerfully. “A _suspiciously_ dead body.”

“For such an expensive job, hunting doesn’t pay _nearly_ well enough.”

“Preach, sister,” you say easily as you pull the sheet covering Gina down to her shoulders. You sigh a little, sadness coloring your mood. “I hate this part,” you whisper.

“I know, babe,” An says sympathetically.

No matter what history says, no matter how much poetry or ballads or epic tales paint it, there is no glory in death. Maybe you sacrificed yourself for a loved one. Maybe you lost a fight with depression. Maybe you died in a car crash, or after a long bout with chemo, or any number of the bajillion ways people can die. Everyone ends up on a coroner’s table, a vicious “Y” carved into their torso, big black stitches sewing them back up again.

Gina Florez is no different. You notice that she was pretty, with blonde hair that looks natural instead of from a bottle. If you open her eyes, you know that you’ll see the milky irises that corpses sport, but her eyes were light blue in life. The kind of girl that you’d wish you could approach, but would ultimately let live her life without having to put up with your painfully awkward ways.

She doesn’t have a life to live anymore, though. It’s your job to figure out why, so you push away your thoughts and pull out your phone to get to business.

Turning your camera on to the “video” option, you start with a close up of Gina’s face and begin to speak. “Gina Florez. The symbol has been washed off of her forehead, but the pictures we have are clear enough.” You pan the camera down her chest. “Sorry, Gina,” you whisper as you tug the sheet lower to expose her breasts, as well as the place between them where there’s a ragged hole, now sewn up as much as possible.

You frown and pull the camera away to look closer at the body for a second. “Knew it,” you mutter. You make sure to get a clear picture on the video for Anya. “This hole wasn’t made with claws. Definitely something funky going on here.”

“What do you think it was made with?”

You tilt your head. “A knife, definitely. Medium sized, maybe serrated on one side? Probably something ceremonial, but that’s just a guess.”

“Okay,” Anya says, rolling with the weird punches that a life of hunting throws at you, “what carves people’s hearts out with knives?”

“… People.”

“… Shit.”

* * *

“The Feds have already been here,” the brat behind the counter says. “She was in there _forever._ What else do you people _want?”_

Dean is about two seconds away from hitting the kid. He can’t help it, he’s never particularly liked “young adults,” or whatever they’re calling themselves. He’s all right with little kids, but get much older than a teenager and he usually runs into attitude problems. So, yeah, he’s gonna hit the kid.

Luckily, Sam is there. “Do you remember what she looked like? Sometimes our orders get mixed up.”

As the kid describes the “agent” who came in, Dean can’t help but think of the girl in the bar from a few weeks ago. _That’s ridiculous,_ he scolds himself. _This whole thing is ridiculous._

He’s been finding his thoughts straying to her more and more often in the last few weeks. He can’t shake the feeling that she’s the one who put down the vengeful spirit they were too late for, despite the fact that she looks so young. Maybe she’s got a youthful face. Maybe she had a rough childhood. Either way, she certainly doesn’t _look_ like she could be a hunter, even though Dean knows full well that that has nothing to do with it. God knows he was hunting when he was too young and pretty to look it.

“Well,” Sam is saying, voice still soothing, “thanks a lot for your help. We’ll get out of your hair.”

They turn simultaneously to walk out, years of working together making their motions practiced and smooth. The kid’s voice stops them before they hit the door.

“Hey!” Dean turns to look at him, and there’s a gleam he doesn’t really like in the guy’s eyes. “Tell that lady agent that she’s welcome back whenever, yeah?”

He has to suppress the urge to growl obscenities at the kid, but Dean manages to turn away without saying a word. _You don’t even know if he’s talking about the girl from the bar. And even if he is, you have no right to get angry with him about it._

“What’s wrong with you?” Sam asks without rancor.

Dean groans. “I dunno. I think I need to get laid.”

Sam wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”

“Way of the world, Sammy,” he says with a shrug as he enters the Impala. “Gotta blow off steam somehow.”

“Well, it looks like this case is already being worked, so you’ve got some time. We can hit the bar tonight, if you want.”

Something in Dean’s gut isn’t sitting right, and he says as much. “I don’t know, man, something feels off.”

“Like what?”

He juts his thumb over his shoulder, pointing back at the morgue. “You notice he only said one agent came to see him?”

Sam frowns. “Yeah, so?”

“Well, whoever it is shouldn’t be working on their own.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Dean, we have no way of knowing that she’s working alone. Maybe her partner is hanging back somewhere else. Maybe her partner was breaking in while she was talking to the kid. Maybe she’s _actual FBI.”_

Dean scoffs. “When was the last time it was _actual_ FBI?”

“That’s really, _really_ not the point.”

“I’m just _saying_ that maybe we should… You know… Double-check. Make sure that she’s not working alone.”

“… You’re being weird.”

 _“You’re_ being weird.”

Sam holds his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. We’ll go check it out. Where do you propose we start looking for this mysterious maybe hunter?”

“Well, we’ve got a description of her. Let’s take a look around at the no-tells.”

* * *

You’re back in your motel room, Anya in your ear, when there’s a knock at the door.

You ignore it at first, because literally no one but the girl on the other line knows where you are. You’ve got crime scene and morgue photos spread around the second bed in your room, and it would be way too much of a hassle to round them all up if you were to answer the door. Not to mention you’re in a camisole and flannel pajama pants that have ice cream cones all over them. Yeah, even if someone _did_ know where you were, you wouldn’t answer it.

So you ignore it.

Until the knocking turns into pounding.

“Ma’am, this is the FBI. We’d like to speak to you, just for a moment.” More banging. “Ma’am!”

There are two possible scenarios here. The first is that it’s the actual FBI. Although Anya has made sure that you’re probably the least wanted hunter on the planet through sneaky online work, you’ve still got a little bit of a rap sheet. It’s possible they’re here to arrest you. The second, and far more likely possibility, is that it’s hunters.

Either way, you’re out.

Your curiosity gets the best of you, though, so you get up and look through the peephole, just to know for sure which one you’re facing.

Your stomach rolls and you back away from the door in a daze once you see who’s standing at your door. _“Fuck,”_ you whisper.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

“Anya, the Winchesters are here,” you hiss, twirling and lunging for your laptop.

_“What?”_

“I’ve gotta go.” You shove things into your duffel on top of your laptop haphazardly.

There’s more banging. “Ma’am? We just want to talk.”

 _Fat chance._ That’s Tall, Sam Winchester, speaking. Which means that Dean’s the one standing next to him. _How are they attractive even through a peephole?!_

You grab all of the crime scene photos and reports and shove them into the slim briefcase you carry with you. They crumple and tear, but you can print more if you need them, and _time is of the essence._

“Ma’am?” That’s Dean, now, impatient, loud. _Shit._

“What are they doing?” Anya asks in your ear.

“Still banging on the door,” you whisper, grabbing both bags, shoving your feet into your sneakers, and moving as quickly as you can into the bathroom.

“I don’t think she’s gonna come to the door, Dean.” _Goddamn right._

“I’m getting you a motel an hour away, you just gotta get to your car, girl,” Anya says urgently.

“I parked out back,” you whisper.

More banging. “Hey! We just wanna talk!”

You pause for a second. From everything you’ve ever heard, the Winchesters are great guys. They love both their chosen and blood family fiercely, and would die to protect their loved ones. _Have,_ in fact, died to protect their loved ones.

It’s just that Sam and Dean Winchester? They hunt _big._ Sure, there are a couple of hunters who’ve saved the world, stopped some dastardly plans, but the Winchesters fuck with _angels._ You may have exorcised a demon or two in your day, but _angels?_ _Apocalypses?_ No, not for you. You’re content with your occasional vengeful spirit and ghoul, okay? You don’t need all that.

But they _are_ the good guys.

You put your bags on the ground silently and move to the little pad of paper and pen that are standard issue in every shitty motel room. You waste precious seconds scribbling a note, then you run back across the room, grab your stuff, and shove your way into the bathroom. You lock the door behind you, then turn and thank the powers that be that there’s a window in this bathroom that’s _just_ big enough to squeeze through.

An invitation for perverts to watch people shower? Yes.

A good getaway plan? Also yes.

* * *

It takes Dean less than a minute to pick the lock on the door, but he knows the girl is gone before he walks into the room. “Fuck.”

“I wonder why she ran,” Sam says as he scans the room. _Now_ he sounds interested, the dick. “Maybe she’s hiding something?”

Dean steps into the room and spies something scribbled on the notepad on the bedside table. “Yeah, well, she can join the club,” he mutters as he goes to the table and snatches the paper up. He’s only a little surprised to see that she’s addressed the note directly to them.

 _Dean and Sam,  
_ _Sorry I missed you. Trust me, it’s better this way for all of us. I’ll take this case, you guys take the next one._

“Huh,” Dean says, and he realizes he’s smiling a beat after he realizes that Sam’s staring at him with one eyebrow raised in suspicion. He quickly rips the note off and shoves it in his pocket.

“Oh-kay,” Sam says, drawing the word out like the floppy-haired jackass he is. “I wonder who your mystery woman is.”

Dean scowls. “She’s not… You know what? Fuck you.”

Sam laughs and holds his hands up. “I’m just saying… Maybe Jody knows.”

Dean tries not to visibly perk up. “Yeah, uh, maybe,” he agrees, shooting for casual.

From the way Sam smirks, he misses the mark.

* * *

Anya hasn’t stopped laughing since you darted through the parking lot (and did they have to park that stupid Impala _right next to your car?)_ and sped away from the motel.

“Shut up,” you snap, though there’s no real heat behind the words.

 _“’You guys take the next one!’”_ she squeals with laughter. “You sound like a _movie villain!”_

“Shut it, woman.”

It takes a few minutes, but her giggles die down a little eventually. “Oh, man,” she says, still chuckling a little, “good times.”

“Why were they after me?” you ask, deciding to ignore her continuing mirth.

“Dunno. Maybe they wanted to team up?”

You snort. “Yeah, no, not happening. How did they even know I was there?”

“No idea. Maybe the guy at the morgue talked?”

“About _me?”_ you ask, genuinely appalled. _“Why?”_

“You _did_ drop a buck fifty to spend some quality time with a corpse. That’s a little memorable. Oh!” She sounds excited. “Or maybe he _wanted_ you!”

You snort. “I have my suspicions. You’re right, he probably talked about the money I gave him. Slimy little _fuck.”_

“Y/N, chill. They didn’t find you, you’re on your way out, I’ll get you a new room-“

“An, I can’t be an hour away from the crime scene.”

“… Okay, I’ll get you a room in town, then. You’ll have to hide your car, though.”

“I think I have a better plan.”

* * *

Dean calls Jody when they get back to the motel room, studiously _ignoring_ Sam’s mocking eyes.

“Dean!” Jody’s voice is warm with affection, and Dean feels a pang of guilt for only calling when he needs something. “How are you boys?”

“Still kicking. How are _you_ guys?”

“Same old, same old. Teenage girls, you know.”

“Sure, sure.” Dean has no fucking idea. “Listen, I have a question for you.”

“What’s up?” Bless Jody, she’s never mad when he always has a reason to call. Oh, sure, she’ll get onto him about it, and she’s bullied them into coming up there for the holidays a couple of times, but she’s never gotten actually angry that they don’t pay her social visits.

He resolves, again, to be better for her. “Got a question about a hunter you might know.”

“Okay, who are we talking about?”

“Well… I don’t actually know.”

“… Uh-huh.”

Dean closes his eyes. “Look, it sounds stupid, but I think someone’s hunting without a partner up here. We’re pretty sure that we’ve got a werewolf situation, and I got a bad feeling about it. I don’t think anyone should be hunting alone.”

“Okay. What makes you think they’re alone?”

Dean gives her the rundown of the morgue employee. When he tells her about what happened at the motel, she starts to laugh.

“Oh, man. All right, I think I know who it is. Give me an hour and I’ll call you back, yeah?”

“Thanks, Jody. I appreciate it.”

* * *

Your phone rings as you settle into the backseat for the night. You’ve got a full comforter wrapped around you, because hunting does not preclude comfort, and God knows you need _something_ to keep you warm and feeling safe right now.

You answer without thinking. “Go for Y/N.”

Jody chuckles on the other end of the line. “When did you start answering the phone like some sort of G.I. Joe?”

You laugh. “You know me, Jody, tough as nails.”

You met Jody through Bobby when you were still a baby hunter. You feel like the two of you grew into the business at the same time. There’s a connection with Jody, and she’s never once seemed to mind how weird you are. Alex and Claire are a little different, not in that they’ve ever been anything but polite, but girls closer to your age intimidate you, even if they are still younger by a few years. Not to mention _pretty_ girls close to your age. Especially with Claire’s brash confidence and Alex’s sweet kindness, it’s too much.

That’s okay, though. Jody’s great as a mentor and occasional guiding light, and if you’re not quite comfortable calling her or her girls friends, then that’s between you and yourself.

“That’s my girl,” she says warmly. “Hey, listen, are you out in Montana?”

You frown. “Yeah. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Did you have a run-in with the Winchesters today?”

You sit up, blanket still wrapped around you, and scowl. “Why?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says archly.

You sigh and deflate a little bit. _Jody is not the enemy._ “Okay, yes, I did.”

“Wanna tell me why you bailed?”

You close your eyes. _Jesus._ “Jody,” you say, pained.

It hasn’t been this hard in _years._ Like, okay, yeah, maybe you’re a little lonely sometimes. Maybe hunting is hard, and maybe it’s _damn_ hard when you’re by yourself, and no matter how great Anya is, she’s still not _here._ Maybe, okay, _maybe_ sometimes you lay awake at night and wonder what’s wrong with you. Maybe you wish that you were different. Maybe you wish making connections with people was easy and didn’t make you feel like a bumbling moron. Maybe all of those things add up sometimes and you get so sad and alone and desperate that you can barely move. But it hasn’t been this hard to be on your own for _years._

_Years._

“Y/N-“

You cut her off before she can be sympathetic and understanding. “Look, I just… Work best alone, Jody. And even if I didn’t, the Winchesters hunt… _Big_ stuff. Like, today it’s a werewolf, tomorrow it’s _saving the world.”_ You smile and try to sound as genuine as possible. “I can barely handle regular hunting.”

There’s just a beat of silence before Jody decides to let you off the hook. “Oh, you do all right.”

Spared the lecture about what a special snowflake you are, you slump back into the seat. “I mean, I’m not dead yet.”

“Sounds like a successful hunter to me.” You both laugh a little. “Listen, Y/N,” she continues, “I know you’re a little nervous about working with other people-“

You snort, loudly, and she ignores you.

“-but the Winchesters are good men. They’d be good to partner up with on this.”

“I already have a partner,” you say stiffly.

“I love Anya just as much as you do,” Jody says, trying to soothe, “but it’s not the same and you know it.”

You groan and tilt your head back to hit the window. “I don’t work well with others.”

“Y/N-“

“What I mean is _they_ don’t work well with _me.”_ You scrub a hand down your face and push your hair back. “I’m not a people person, Jodes.”

“Sweetheart-“

You make up your mind suddenly. “No, it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

“… So you’re all right with them coming to find you?”

“If they can find me, sure, and if they can keep up, they can maybe even work the case with me.”

Jody laughs out loud, and no matter how much your stomach is tied up in knots, it relaxes a part of you. You really like Jody, you don’t want to be the reason she’s stressed out.

“There’s my girl.”

* * *

Dean waits impatiently for Jody to call back. She does so (thirty-seven minutes after they hung up, but who’s counting?), and he waits at least two rings before picking up to keep from embarrassing himself.

“Jody?”

“Hey, Dean. Sam with you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Put me on speaker.”

He obeys and places the phone on the bed next to him. “What’s up?” Sam asks, coming to sit on the other bed.

“Hi, Sam,” Jody says cheerfully. “All right, here’s the deal with the girl you’re after.” Dean’s heart pounds, and he can’t rightly say why. “Her name is Y/N. She’s a hunter, kind of young, but she’s good. _Very_ good.”

“Did she agree to let us work with her? And why is she hunting alone?”

“Well, here’s the thing. Y/N’s a bit… Nervous, around people. She’s got some anxiety about working with you two. She’s got sort of a silent partner, a girl named Anya, but she does the legwork on her own.”

“Why?” Dean insists.

“Not really my story to tell, kiddo,” Jody says coolly, and Dean realizes that these girls that Jody’s talking about are hers, more strays that Jody considers her charges, and he’d best not be a dick about them if he wants Jody’s help.

“So, did she agree to work with us?” Sam asks, shooting Dean a quizzical look.

“Well, kinda. You’re gonna have to find her, and her exact words were, ‘if they can keep up, they can work the case with me.’”

Sam scoffs. “What?” He sounds offended.

Dean, though, Dean’s grinning, because that’s _hilarious._ This girl (if she is, in fact, the girl he’s thinking of) is at least ten years his junior, and she wants them to “keep up.”

He can practically _hear_ Jody shrug. “That’s what she said.” She sighs. “Look, she’s a good girl, and a good hunter, but she’s a little offbeat. There’ve been some… Not so nice things said to her, and about her, that have gotten back to her. She’s kind of skittish around people.”

“And she’s a _hunter?”_ Sam asks incredulously. “We have to talk to people all the time.”

 _“You_ have to talk to people all the time.” Jody’s voice is cold again. “Y/N has found a way around it. Actually, she rarely has to speak to anyone at all.”

“How do we find her?” Dean asks, cutting Sam off and hopefully cutting off the chances that his big mouthed little brother gets him into _deeper_ shit with the sheriff.

Jody scoffs. “You’re big boys,” she says wryly, “I have faith you’ll figure something out.”

* * *

You spend the next two days working from your car in a haze of conflicting emotions.

First of all, _where the fuck did that note come from?_ Anya was right, you sounded like a Bond villain. You’re so embarrassed you could _die,_ you’re certain the Winchesters think you’re a huge dweeb (they would not be wrong). They probably aren’t even looking for you. They’re probably halfway back to wherever home base is for them, glad to put the weirdo who leaves notes in motel rooms behind them.

However, on the off chance that they _are_ still looking for you, you haven’t gotten another room. You’re strictly car living, which has been miserable. You’ve found yourself daydreaming about the shitty water pressure in the room you fled, and it was _bad._ You’ve been charging your phone with a car charger, but you’ve had to go to the library to charge your laptop. Anya hasn’t stopped poking fun at you since you peeled out of the motel parking lot, which is fair, but _rude._

So you haven’t had a real shower in two days, or a real meal. Your legs are cramping from the seated position you’ve been in for forty-eight hours. Your hair is in what might be called a messy bun, if it were intentional, but more closely resembles some sort of intricate bird’s nest. You’re wearing clothes that desperately need to be washed, and you’re almost a hundred percent sure that what you’re dealing with is witches. You _hate_ witches.

So it makes sense that it’s _now_ that Dean Winchester would knock on your passenger side window.

* * *

You’re eating a breakfast burrito, curled in the driver’s seat, frowning at a translation of a spell from somewhere in Greece. _Who knew Greece had witches?_ You managed to have a kind of wipe-down in a gas station bathroom today with cold water and scratchy paper towels, and you even ran a brush through your hair before pulling it back into a knot again, so you feel better.

The burrito sucks, but not everything can come up roses all at once.

You’re looking for the second page of the translation, wondering how easy it could possibly be to mistake the word “hair” for the word “hare” in Greek. You don’t actually _speak_ Greek, so you have no idea, and you’re looking for the last half of the spell to see if it repeats itself when a _rap rap rap_ at the passenger side door startles you.

You jump, dislodging the papers spread across your lap, and barely hanging onto the foil-wrapped burrito in your hand. You look up, and feel your face heat as you blush furiously.

Dean Winchester is standing outside, bent over to peer into the window. He’s smirking, and he’s gorgeous, and the urge to just turn the key and drive away is almost overwhelming.

“Gonna let me in?” His voice is muffled by the closed windows.

“I don’t know yet,” you say honestly.

He grins, and you smile weakly back. After a brief argument with yourself _(you are going to make an idiot of yourself) (but look at how incredibly handsome he is),_ you decide that if he doesn’t like the way your car smells, that’s on him. You shuffle and move your stuff away from the passenger seat before leaning over to unlock the door.

He folds himself into the car, and you barely manage to contain a helpless groan.

Dean smells good, like some expensive, subtle cologne. He _looks_ amazing, the dick, in his sleek overcoat and what you can only assume is his FBI suit. Green eyes take in everything, all of the research, the bag of trash under the dash, the fact that your feet are bare and tucked beneath you in the driver’s seat.

“So,” he murmurs, “this is you.” He meets your eyes, and it is a _struggle_ to keep his gaze. “You’ve evaded us for two days, you know. That’s pretty impressive.”

You don’t say anything because language has abandoned you in the face of him looking right at you.

He nods toward the apartment complex attached to the parking lot you’re sitting in. “I was gonna go interview some suspects, if you wanna…”

You frown, uncomprehending, until it dawns on you. You look down at your Doctor Who t-shirt, jeans, and bare feet. “Uh…”

He tilts his head back to indicate the back seat. “You got a suit back there somewhere?”

You do, in fact, have a suit stowed in the trunk, but you shake your head. “I don’t need to interview the women,” you say softly, unable to make your voice be any louder. “I know it was them.”

He cocks an eyebrow, and part of you dies. “Yeah? How’s that?”

 _Uh…_ “Uh... “ You shake your head a little, trying to pull yourself together. “I, uh, I hacked their phone records.” You shuffle the papers in your lap around, finding what you’re looking for underneath your left leg. You hand the transcripts over. “Marlene, the redhead, she’s been dabbling in witchcraft for a while now, but two months ago, her husband took her on a vacation to Greece for their anniversary.” You know you’re babbling, but it feels better than awkward silence, so you continue. “When she was there, I guess she ran into a coven that took an interest in her. They sent her home with a Greek book of spells.”

He’s reading through the information in his hands. “What did she need the heart for?”

You blink. “Oh. Marlene’s also a werewolf.”

He turns and stares at you, making you blink and shrink back a little. “She’s a _what?”_

“... A werewolf?”

“How do you _know that?”_

He’s not really _yelling,_ necessarily, but his voice is definitely raised. Normally, you would flinch, because confrontation makes your palms sweat and your eyes prick with tears. Being shouted at, even if it’s not _really_ shouting, usually makes you incredibly nervous.

This is about hunting, though. You’re a _good_ hunter. Even though, obviously, you would prefer to never have heard about the supernatural, or been forced to join the fight against it, you’re relatively certain that hunting is the only job you’d have been good at, anyway.

And, though nervous he _does_ make you, even Dean Winchester can’t make you bad at it.

“Well, Gina Florez, the latest victim, isn’t the _only_ victim.” You shuffle around again and find the folder with the previous crime scene photos in it. You hand them over as you speak. “Same everything, hearts missing, lunar cycle is right. The only reason I haven’t already taken care of them is because I needed to _see_ one of the victims.” You lean closer to him, pointing at one of the photos of a previous victim’s chest. “See here? It looked like they had carved something in, and I was right. It’s a ritual of some sort.”

“What were they trying to do?”

The deep rumble of his voice so close to your ear has you shuddering, but your own voice remains clear and steady. “See, that’s what I’m not sure about. I don’t really speak Greek, so I can’t be positive what they want out of this. It’s something I’d like to know before I go charging in there, guns blazing.” You sigh. “But, since I’ve been avoiding you guys, I haven’t been able to really sit down and dig into it with my laptop.”

He finally turns to look at you, and you lean back slowly, fighting the urge to jerk back when you see how close his _incredibly_ green eyes are to yours. “Yeah, about that-“ he starts.

You cut him off. “Look, I usually work alone, and it’s usually best that way. We can team up on this if you really want to, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

His gaze is warm but unreadable. “Warn me about what?”

You sigh. _He’s gonna make me say it._ “Okay, look. I’m weird. Not in a cute, ‘haha I’m kind of a nerd girl’ weird, but I’m _strange._ I’m anxiety-ridden and I have tics and I don’t like talking to people and I’m _weird,_ Dean.” You hate having this conversation with people, because when he opens his mouth, you know what he’s going to say, so you hold your hand up. “You don’t have to say anything like, ‘I don’t care,’ or ‘you’re not weird, Y/N.’ You have no _idea_ if you care, and you know that I _am_ weird, because I _hid_ from you for two days to avoid this _exact_ conversation.” You smile. “Don’t worry about it now, and don’t worry about it when you realize that you don’t want to work with me again, because _I’m_ not worried about it. Yeah?”

He’s just looking at you, and while it’s a struggle to do so, you keep eye contact until he smiles. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me sweetheart.” You point to the picture in his hand. “Any ideas about that?”

“Oh, I got no idea, but you gotta meet Sammy for that.”

* * *

Dean doesn’t know why he’s so intent on getting Y/N to like them, but he is, and he’s not in the habit of questioning himself about shit like this, so he rolls with it.

She’s staring at the motel he and Sam are staying in like it’s a firing squad. She hasn’t gotten out of her car. He thinks about trying to talk her into it, but he thinks maybe that would be counterproductive, so he just leans against Baby and waits.

Y/N, she’s… Weird. Okay, yeah, she was right, she’s a little strange, but Jody warned him of that, and Y/N said it herself, so he’s not surprised. He’s… Intrigued?

Because it’s not like she’s a bad hunter. On the contrary, she appears to be an _incredible_ hunter. She’s been in town less than a week, according to her, and she’s almost ready to make her move against the witches (werewolves? ugh). That’s amazing, it usually takes he and Sam at least a few days to gather information at all, and she’s already ready to put the bitches down. He’s suitably impressed.

She finally seems to steel herself enough to open the door. She’s got a briefcase in one hand, and she’s pulled on a hoodie and a pair of Converse sneakers. It’s kind of a slap in the face, the reminder of how much younger she is, but her eyes hold a soul that’s much older, and God knows she’s old enough to be risking her life hunting.

She looks over at him expectantly and smiles a little. “All right, let’s do this.”

He smiles back and pushes off of the Impala. “Lead the way.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “What makes you think I know what room you guys are in?”

“What makes you think I don’t _know_ you know what room we’re in?”

Her smile widens, a flash of real emotion. “Touché,” she says, her voice lighter than it has been since he barged his way into her passenger seat, too excited to have finally caught her to really think about his actions.

He follows her as she unerringly walks straight to the door of the room he and Sam have for the night.

* * *

Later, Dean is sitting on one of their beds, watching Y/N and Sam conference call with Anya about the translation for the spell that the witches are carving into their victims’ chests.

Very few things get by Dean Winchester. He’s getting the feeling that nothing about Y/N will get by him at all.

The first thing he noticed is that she and Anya are close. They had some sort of silent conversation that only lasted a few seconds when they made the initial call. After her greeting of, “What’s up, my favorite buttercup?” and Y/N telling her that she was on the phone with Sam and Dean, Anya moved into a brisk professionalism. Y/N and Sam have been mirroring it.

The second thing he noticed is that Y/N isn’t as comfortable with Sam as she is with Dean himself. She tenses every time Sam moves closer to point to the laptop screen or to speak to Anya on the speakerphone, and relaxes a little when he moves away. Even though she was anxious while they were in the car together, she never moved away from Dean. She did, in fact, move _closer_ to him, and never tensed once. The thought makes him feel better, because sitting here, watching her and Sam spout genius at one another, it’s easy for Dean to start in on himself about not being smart enough to hunt with these people, much less be anything more for Y/N (not that he’s thinking of that, good grief), temporary though either situation might be.

But seeing how much easier it is for her to meet his own gaze as opposed to Sam’s, or the way she occasionally shoots longing looks at the space next to him on the bed, relaxes him a little, lets him get out of that headspace where he knows he’s not good enough. Oh, he still knows he’s not, but this way he doesn’t really have to think about it.

Instead, he thinks about how good she smelled and how warm she was, brushing against him in the car as she pointed out the right way to hunt these things, because that? That’s hot.

* * *

Damn your libido, you have _got_ to stop shooting heart eyes at Dean Winchester.

You know he’s noticed, and he’s just nice enough not to mention how painfully awkward you are, some girl who’s at least ten years younger than he is, in a dirty t-shirt and jeans, trying to make googly eyes with him. _Jesus, I’m a wreck._

It’s just that you _wish_ you’d set your stuff up next to Dean on his bed. Would it have been a little forward? Well, yeah, but you’d be way more comfortable sitting next to Dean than to Sam. Not that Sam hasn’t been _super_ nice, because he definitely has. And not that it makes any sense that you’d be more comfortable with Dean, because attractive people usually make you hella nervous, but for some reason, Dean doesn’t. Sure, him basically pouncing his way into your car made you a little wary, but now the space next to him looks inviting as hell.

Plus, Sam keeps leaning into your bubble. You’re sure it’s unintentional, and if you said something, he’d back off and apologize immediately. He’s just that kind of guy, you can tell. But mentioning that it makes you uncomfortable sounds like absolute hell, so you just keep quiet.

Anya can tell that you’re stressed, you can hear it in her voice, but she doesn’t mention it, bless her.

“I think I’ve got it!” she crows, more of a show of personality than she’s given the whole time you’ve been on the phone.

“Yeah?” Sam’s smile is gentle, and you like him immensely, but dear God, do you wish he’d scoot back a smidge.

“The part in the middle, the one we’re debating.”

“η τελευταία καρδιά που πρέ πει να καταναλωθεί,” you recite obediently.

“Right! It means, ‘the last heart that need be consumed.’”

Dean has stood up and is crossing the room. “All right, what does that mean?”

Sam is frowning, and Anya admits she’s not sure, but you’re barely aware of either of those things, because Dean has come to stand right behind your chair, which has resulted in Sam leaning back in his own. You feel yourself take the first unrestricted breath you’ve taken since you walked in, and you know that somehow Dean knows that. His chosen place of standing isn’t an accident. You’re incredibly grateful.

You’re also suddenly sure of what the translation means.

“’The last heart,’” you say, the excitement of solving a hard clue starting to burn in your sternum. “They’re trying to cure werewolfism.”

“Like, permanently?” Anya asks.

“No,” Sam says, brow furrowed as he scans the page in front of him. “Here it is. ‘Το φεγγάρι θα είναι ακόμα η ερωμένη σου.’”

“’The moon will still be your mistress,’” Anya translates.

“They’re trying to cure the need for human hearts,” Dean says grimly.

“… Is that so bad?” Anya asks, a little timid. She _hates_ the killing part of hunting, and is always looking for “good monsters.” You’ve stopped trying to convince her that those are the rare, rare exceptions.

The way that the Winchesters handle this moment will determine whether or not you actually end up working the case with them, or if you bail out a window and take care of the witches by yourself. Anya is your _best friend,_ and strange and fragile though she may be, you would die to defend her. And you will _absolutely_ take off and work this case by yourself if they’re not nice to her.

“They’ve killed six people,” Sam says gently. “That shows a willingness to kill to get what they want. What’s to say they wouldn’t kill someone down the line for a spell?”

“Just because they’re not killing to eat doesn’t mean they’re not killing,” Dean says behind you. When you lean back in your chair, you feel his hands resting on the back of it. Their heat radiates through your thin shirt and hoodie, branding you. He doesn’t move them, and you don’t move forward.

 _You are so weird,_ you lament.

“All right, all right,” Anya says grudgingly. “I get it, I just hate it.” She takes a deep breath. “So, what do we do?”

Sam looks up at Dean. “Shit. Do we do witch-killing bullets or silver bullets?”

You perk up. “Witch-killing bullets?”

“Yeah, Sammy thought ‘em up.” The pride in Dean’s voice makes you smile a little, as does the faint blush on Sam’s cheeks. “We have a witch-killing potion that we put into hollow points.”

“Well, we could just make silver hollow-points,” you say, tempted to lean back to look up at Dean but worried that would be too familiar, too intimate. You stare down at your hands instead, because it’s safe there. “Fill them with the potion.”

The look that Sam shoots you is appraising, blatantly sizing you up. “That’s a really good idea, Y/N,” he says softly.

“I’ve been known to have a couple of them,” you say with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s a stone-cold genius,” Anya says, and you feel your cheeks flare hot with a blush. “You guys get to making bullets, I’ll get to monitoring Marlene’s schedule. They won’t be killing again anytime soon, since the full moon was a few days ago, so we have some breathing room. I’ll monitor her to make sure we have a good grasp on her schedule so you guys can get in and out without any mess.”

Sam’s eyebrows are raised. “Thank you, Anya.”

“Well, far be it from me to let either my best friend or the freaking _Winchesters_ get killed,” Anya says cheerfully. “Anya out.” The line goes dead.

Sam’s got a wistful smile on his face. “Does she make you think of Charlie?”

You can hear the smile in Dean’s voice, too. “Yeah, she does.”

“Charlie… Bradbury?” you ask. At Sam’s nod, you smile sadly. “She was the best. Next to An, of course.” Anya was _devastated_ when Charlie died.

Sam’s face darkens, and you can almost sense Dean tense up behind you. It’s fairly common knowledge, among the few hunters who knew Charlie, that she died helping the Winchesters. You wince and your eyes drop back down to your hands. _Smooth, just bring up the death of a close friend that they probably feel responsible for, why don’t you?_

Lucky for you and the horrified clench of your tummy muscles, Sam’s phone buzzes insistently. He flips it open, reads the message, and sends Dean a furtive glance. You feel the tension lift, and you’re immeasurably grateful.

“Who’s that, Sammy?” Dean sounds amused.

“Uh… Eileen.”

“Oh, _Eileen.”_

Sam scowls. “Shut up, Dean.”

“What does _Eileen_ need?” Dean’s voice is lilting, teasing, it’s like a physical touch on your skin.

“She, uh… Needs help on a case?”  Sam stands up.  “You guys got this, right?”

 _What?_ “What?” you manage to squeak, totally undignified.  It’s just that if Sam leaves, then it’s just you and Dean and that makes your own awkwardness level go up by approximately _four hundred_ percent.  That’s too much.

“Yeah,” Dean says smoothly, like he’s not nervous at all, which he probably isn’t, _ugh_. “Should be a cakewalk with Y/N and Anya.”

“Great,” Sam says brightly.  He moves back and forth across the room across the room, moving remarkably fast for such huge man, packing his stuff up.  

“In a hurry much, Sammy?”  Dean sounds outright amused now.

“She’s gonna meet me here, we’re on her way to the hunt, so I’ll just-”

“Aw, she’s picking you up for the first date.  How _evolved_ of you.”  Dean’s having a delightful time, apparently, and you’re sitting here, trying to breathe through the nerves.  _Dick._

“Don’t be a dick, Dean,” Sam chides, reading your mind at the same time. “It’s not like that.”

 _“Sounds_ like that, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

 _Well, that was adorable._ You’re frozen where you are as they banter back and forth, and before you can get your bearings, Sam is shutting the door behind him.

Dean sits in the seat that Sam vacated, making you both hyper-aware of and really grateful for his proximity. You don’t understand how someone who looks like Dean is so soothing to your subconscious, but you don’t get a lot of that sensation, so you’re trying to roll with it.

You take the opportunity to drink him in again. His face is almost disturbingly symmetrical, which is bad enough, but he’s also gorgeous. His green eyes make you wish you had the talent to draw him. You want to write down everything about this encounter, about the last few hours, so you never forget any details whatsoever about how, somehow, Dean _fucking_ Winchester makes you feel more comfortable in your own skin.

He’s staring right back at you, and you realize that, once again, silence has gotten away from you and gone on a few beats too long. Normally you’d blurt something out, anything to get the tension to lift, but you just lean down to press your head to the table and groan.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” you say airily. “Just that I’m painfully weird, and I’m going to ruin this relatively nice moment any second now by saying something strange, or off-putting, or totally inappropriate, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

He seems to think for a few moments, and you’re the fucking worst, because you’re just pitifully glad that he hasn’t asked if you wouldn’t mind sleeping in the car (it’s happened before, see “list of reasons you work alone”). “Well,” he says slowly, “We could get outta here.”

You look back up at him, surprised. “Really?”

He frowns. “Wait, you’re old enough to drink, right?”

“Oh, my God, _yes,”_ say, glaring at him.

He chuckles, hands raised in surrender. “All right, all right, let’s go, then.”

* * *

Dean doesn’t know if she’s _more_ comfortable in the smoky little bar they’re in, but at least there’s not that insane tension that there was in the motel room when they were alone.

She took a quick shower before they left, and now she’s changed into a tank top and a hoodie, which is more skin than he’s seen so far. Even if it is just her collarbone, it’s a little dizzying. Her hair is still pulled back into a bun, but she brushed it and he thinks she put a hint of makeup on, so she looks _good._

They’re at a table, sitting on barstools next to one another. He was going to put some space between them, but she seemed to relax more the closer he was, so he ended up right beside her. It’s a situation that sits very well with him as he leans back and casually drapes his arm across the back of her stool.

They’re speaking quietly about nothing, bent close to one another, and she cocks an eyebrow at his arm, but ultimately says nothing. It makes Dean grin a little, and she rolls her eyes but doesn’t move away, and he counts it as a win.

She’s speaking animatedly about _Dr. Sexy,_ which is hilarious, when one of the servers comes to replace their empty bottles (Dean’s delighted to learn that Y/N is no lightweight, and has so far matched him drink for drink). The only reason Dean even _notices_ the other woman is because she’s bringing beer, and when he turns to shoot her a smile, he’s met with a stony glare. His eyebrows raise, but the woman’s face doesn’t soften at all. She puts the bottles down harder than necessary, takes their empties, and stalks away.

When he turns back to Y/N, she’s blushing, her pretty eyes wide and flustered. “Oh, jeeze,” she murmurs.

“What’s wrong?”

She looks at him incredulously. “She thought we were together! She was giving you the stink eye because she thought we were together!” She sighs and her eyes cut to the table. “Probably jealous.”

“Or pissed,” he says with a smile. “She’s probably pissed because of how young you are.”

Y/N immediately rolls her eyes. “I’m not _that_ young. It’s only a few years.”

“Ten.”

_“Whatever.”_

He laughs. “Proving my point, baby.”

That earns him another eye roll, but the pet name makes her blush harder, and she takes a long swig of beer instead of replying. He grins at her and she huffs a little, but doesn’t move away.

Sure, maybe she’s a little awkward sometimes, but it’s endearing. She’s bracingly honest, unafraid of what people will say to or about her because they’ve _already_ said it. And if that makes Dean want to find whoever it was who made her so self-conscious and kick the shit out of them, then that’s his business. The point is, he doesn’t really understand the way he feels drawn to her, or the reason he wants to hold her close, maybe mark her up a little while they’re doing depraved things to one another (and hold her hand, God help him, not that he’ll _ever_ admit that out loud), but he does.

She clears her throat a little, and he doesn’t really consider before he speaks. “We could give her something to glare at me about.” Internally, he winces. _Smooth._

Her eyes are wide with shock, and he really realizes for the first time how close they are to one another. _No wonder the waitress was trying to kill me via eye death ray._

 _“What?”_ Y/N hisses.

He covers his own weirdness with a smirk, running the mouth of his bottle back and forth on his lip. Her eyes flick down to watch, just for a second, but he catches the movement with a grin. “You can’t tell me you’re not interested.”

She sputters for a moment, her gaze shooting back up to his. _“What?_ I, what? I-”

“So, we’re gonna pretend you ain’t been making eyes at me since we got to the motel?”

She blushes so brightly, so _fast,_ that Dean begins to be vaguely worried. “Oh, God,” she whispers, her eyes dropping to the table as her breath speeds up. “Dean, I’m so sorry, Jesus, I can go, I’m so-”

He kicks himself. _God dammit._ She’s too fragile to do that kind of shit with. Well, not _fragile,_ no, she’s about as fragile as granite, but she’s nervous around him. And, hey, Dean’s not blind, he knows what he looks like, and it’s not always a gift. Like now, when all he wants is for her to be at ease with him, and he just fucked it all to hell.

He brings his arm back from around her, giving her some space, but lays a gentle hand on her arm. Her jaw snaps shut and her eyes come up to meet his hesitantly. “Hang on there,” he says softly, “who says I wasn’t making eyes right back at you?”

She blinks, and an uncertain eternity passes before she speaks. “What?”

“You think I look at every badass lady hunter like this?” he teases.

“Uh… I kinda thought that was just your face.”

He blinks, then can’t help but toss his head back and laugh out loud. When he looks back at her, she has a little smile on her face, and she’s still tense, but her eyes are warm. It makes something in his chest loosen to see her like that. How did he get so wrapped up in this girl so fast?

“Think you’re pretty hot, huh?” she asks, and there’s still kind of a nervous tremor in her voice, but it’s manageable now, and God knows Dean’s always been good at multitasking.

“Been told a time or two,” he says with a shrug.

The warmth in her eyes sharpens to heat, and her smile becomes more pronounced. “Dean.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Take me back to the motel.”

* * *

You don’t touch Dean at all on the way back to the motel. Partly to build tension, and by the way his eyes dart to you every few seconds, it’s working.

Mostly, though, it’s because you know that if you _start_ touching him, you’re not going to stop.

Because, yeah, you definitely have anxiety, and you’re a little… _Off._ But you’re not a _virgin,_ for God’s sake. The thing is, being weird means that not a lot of partners were willing to stick around to… _Explore._ That resulted in you having to get over your insecurities so you can ask for what you want in bed. So you’re a little… Forward.

You can’t _wait_ to see how Dean reacts to that.

The two of you don’t speak at all as he parks and you make your way to the room, but you’re so close to him that you can feel the heat baking off of him. When you get to the door, you find yourself crowded in front of him, his arms caging you in. You take an unsteady breath, and you can almost _feel_ his smirk.

 _Smug,_ you think fondly, with no small amount of your own satisfaction.

You step into the room, spin on your heel, and fist your hand in his plaid shirt. You just see his eyes start to widen and his smirk start to slip before you’re yanking him in to kiss the hell out of him.

It takes him a moment or two to catch up, but when he does, dear _God._ His big hands are on your hips, and he tilts his head to slot your mouths together at a better angle. You’re vaguely aware that he’s kicked the door shut, but you’re more focused on dragging him into the room.

Once your knees hit the bed, you get to work pushing his jacket and flannel shirt off of his broad shoulders. When you try to tug his arms away so you can pull the garments off completely, he _growls_ into your mouth. You smile against him, revelling in the feel of all that hard muscle beneath your hands.

“Dean,” you murmur, “clothes.”

“On the bed,” he says, husky and demanding.

You decide that if you want to get him naked, you’re gonna have to take the initiative here. You step back, ignoring his displeased grunt, and reach down to strip your shirt off, leaving you in just a bra. The cool air on your bare skin makes it erupt in goosebumps.

He falls silent as he surveys you, making you shiver from more than the cold. His own chest is heaving a little, and the obvious effect you’re having on this _beautiful_ man fills you with a feminine sort of satisfaction.

His hands come up to your hips again, his thumbs rubbing little circles into your skin, driving you crazy. He’s still staring at you intently, eyes burning as they trace a path over your shoulders, along your collarbone, the cups of your bra. It’s absolutely _arresting._

You’re filled with a sort of lust-fueled gratitude as you stare right back at him. He _did_ freak you out at the bar, but the flash of panic in his eyes before he comforted you tells you it wasn’t intentional, so he’s forgiven. So it’s not about that.

The thing is, Dean Winchester is the first person who’s ever _chased_ you.

Not the first person to show an interest, no. You had a boyfriend or two in high school, and you’ve had your fair share of one-night stands since then. It’s just that you have _always_ been the pursuer. You’re all right with that, you really are, you don’t mind instigating these encounters.

But being chased, by _Dean Winchester_ no less, has been a brand new experience for you. You spent two days actively running from him, for God’s sake, and he patiently followed you to that parking lot. That was even some of your most antisocial behavior _ever,_ and Dean didn’t bat an eye.

You’re not fooling yourself. The man isn’t in love with you, nor you with him. This will happen once, maybe twice, and then the two of you will go your separate ways. You’re just basking in being with a partner who _wants_ you, who you’re so comfortable with.

“Dean,” you say softly, meeting his heated, lust-blown gaze. “Take your fucking shirt off.”

You see the shiver that works its way through him, and the way he obeys quickly and without question. _That would be fun to explore,_ you think idly, without a lot of hope for enough time to adequately get to know Dean’s submissive qualities. _Damn._

As soon as his shirts hit the floor, you’re on him. You trace the tattoo on his chest with your tongue, savoring the tang of salt on his skin. You lave a nipple, smiling when his breath hitches as the flesh hardens in your mouth. _Responsive._

You want to _devour_ him, and now that the thought has crossed your mind, that’s what you decide to do.

You put your own hands on his stomach, mostly flat but with some give, which just amps up the heat in your solar plexus. You spend some time mapping out the scars that litter his skin, keeping your touch gentle and reverent as you nip and suck at his neck. When you push him back a step, he frowns a little. It’s wiped off his face when you drop to your knees in front of him, keeping your eyes on his. The slack look on his face makes the jolt of pain you get totally worth it.

“Y/N-” he breathes. His hands are fisted at his sides.

You hum in acknowledgement, but your eyes have slipped closed as you lean forward to nuzzle his half hard cock through his jeans.

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Y/N, you don’t have to-”

“But I want to,” you purr, reaching up to open the button. “If you don’t want me to, you can say so, but, to be honest,” and you make sure he’s looking into your eyes for this part, “I’d really like your cock in my mouth.”

You’re in the delightful position to feel said cock twitch and harden further against your cheek. “Fuck,” he says softly as his own eyes close and he threads his fingers through your hair. “Yeah, baby, I want it.”

You smile and pull his zipper down slowly. Once you have it open all the way, he stops you by tightening his fingers in your hair. You look back up at him, hoping there’s a good reason for even _more_ delay. You don’t move away from him, knowing that he can feel the damp warmth of your breath through the thin material of his boxers.

“Something I can do for you?” You smile and your cheek presses against his hard length. “Well, something _else_ I can do for you?”

Despite your cocky attitude, the heat and awe in his eyes _does_ things to you, makes your belly go tight with need. If you don’t get some part of him inside some part of you in the next couple of minutes, you’re pretty sure you’re going to die.

“Just wanna make sure you’re sure,” he says roughly. “Do you wanna grab a condom?”

One of the only really good things about the hunting community is that safe sex is taken _very_ seriously, for so many reasons. Very few hunters are comfortable with the idea of having children at all, much less with another hunter. The lifestyle hunters lead make it almost impossible. The idea of giving someone an STD, too, is considered especially awful among hunters. You’re already fighting the supernatural, forcing someone to fight their own body is cruel, and especially so among hunters.

“Well, I don’t have anything, and I’m on birth control,” you say, speaking into the rough denim at his groin. _Thank you, IUD, for the chance to have spontaneous sex with handsome men._ “But if you want one, I have some in my-”

“I’m clean,” he says quickly, “And I don’t want anything between us.”

You shudder, and his predatory grin does nothing to quell the heat in your belly. Now that the necessary conversation has been had, you reach up to tug his jeans open further. He inhales sharply, but you’re enraptured by the sight of his dick straining against the fabric of his boxers. Almost unable to help yourself, you lean forward to mouth at him, leaving a wet spot. You trace the ridge at the head with your tongue. At his broken moan, you look up to make eye contact with him at the same time that you take as much of the tip into your mouth as possible and suckle at it hard.

The sound he makes is beyond description. It starts deep in his chest, helplessly punched out of him. It sets you on fire, and suddenly this whole thing isn’t moving _nearly_ fast enough for you.

You lean back just enough to reach up and pull his boxers down, freeing his now fully hard cock. He’s thick and long, curved tantalizing up toward his stomach. _That’s because of me._

You tug his jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh. He doesn’t help you at all, seems to be intent on threading his fingers through your hair and along your face. You’re okay with that. Because as soon as you unclothe him enough, you move forward and swallow down as much as you can without so much as a preamble, using your hand to cover what won’t fit.

 _“Jesus fucking Christ-_ ” he bites out, fingers tightening almost painfully in your hair, holding you in place. You’re happy to stay there, working the thick vein on the underside with your tongue. The taste of him is thick and heady, and you let your eyes start to slide shut to savor his weight in your mouth.

His fingers tighten in your hair again. You look back up at him and pull back until your lips are just wrapped around the head of his dick. You suck hard, tongue flicking precome from the slit.

His green eyes are blazing down at you. “I want your eyes on me, baby.”

If your mouth wasn’t full, you’d smirk at him. You’re surprised at how much you like the back and forth of control here. Dean, while clearly eager to follow orders, is also obviously used to doling them out, too. Normally, you would balk at it, preferring to keep the reins firmly in your own hands, but for some reason, you trust Dean, which is foolhardy on probably eight different levels of stupidity, but there it is.

Now is not the time to examine it, however. Not when you have his cock in your mouth, his hands in your hair, his eyes locked with your own, your panties already dampening.

Instead, you hum your assent, making the flesh between your lips twitch, and you start to bob your head in earnest.

You lose yourself in the blowjob for a while. You’ve always enjoyed giving them, the stretch of your lips and the steadily growing ache in your jaw giving you a strange sense of accomplishment.

Much sooner than you’d like, he tugs you off of him. His eyes are mesmerizing as they rove your face hungrily. You know what he sees, mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and spit-shiny, swollen lips.

“I want to be inside you when you make me come.” His voice somehow manages to be commanding and pleading at the same time.

You smile. “I think that can be arranged.”

He helps you to your feet and kisses you lazily, to your delight. You put your hands on his hips and push gently until he rotates where he stands, shuffling because his pants are still restraining him. You end up in a reversal of where you just were, with his back to the bed and you in front of him.

In a move he just _has_ to see coming, you plant your hands on his chest and shove him unceremoniously backward.

He lands with an, “oomph,” but doesn’t complain further than that. His eyes track your every movement as you reach behind yourself to unhook your bra and toss it, then quickly rid yourself of jeans and underwear.

You stand at the side of the bed, knees pressed between his as much as they can be with his legs still encased in jeans, and let you look his fill for a few moments. You’re not particularly _proud_ of the way you look, and sometimes you feel like you’re more scar tissue than person. There’s your arm, where thick, ropey scars denote a werewolf claw. A place on your ribs on the right side where the fire you set to kill a wendigo caught you, too, before you managed to put yourself out. A deep, dark kind of divot in your thigh that you barely remember getting. You think it was a vampire, but you can’t be sure. All you remember is passing out, the shouts of the backup that Anya had frantically called, and waking up in a hospital alone.

You’re not _proud_ of it, but you’re not ashamed either. It’s not the body of a model, but it’s the body of someone who saves lives, and you’re _damned_ proud of that.

So you unashamedly let him look his fill for a few moments before smirking and stepping forward to crawl on top of him. Once you’re straddling him, his hands start at your knees and glide reverently up your sides. His thumbs swipe your hips on the way up, and somehow his fingers pay attention to each rib. Once he gets there, he cups your breasts gently, thumbing your nipples until they’re hard and you’re moaning above him.

_“Dean.”_

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he says roughly. One hand abandons your left nipple, and before you can let out a protesting whine, it trails down your belly. It’s not flat or anything, not like his is, but his fingers are still gentle, affectionate as he makes his way down. You’re grateful that he doesn’t linger there, anyway.

He turns his wrist and buries his fingers in your warm, wet folds hard enough to make you arch and gasp.

 _“Oh,_ fuck, _fuck!”_

“Yeah? You like that, baby?” he murmurs as he slowly slips one finger into you, his thumb circling your clit. “Jesus, so fucking tight, so fucking hot like this. Hot on your knees, hot right here, can barely stand it.”

You moan, and he puts another finger in. _“Dean!”_

He finally touches your clit when you start rocking your hips helplessly on his hand. “Yeah? Think you can come like this?” He tweaks your nipple hard.

Though there is urgency thrumming in your veins, and you can start to feel that dangerous heat pool in your belly, you stop the movement of your hips and plant your hands on his chest to pull yourself up and off of his fingers. You meet his bewildered eyes.

“I want you in me when you make me come.” You hope you got the same tone that he did, begging and demanding at the same time. His breath hitches and his eyes fall closed for a moment and you know you’ve hit the mark.

He lets his hand fall to your hips again, neither of you minding the way his fingers smear your own juices on your skin. He guides you so that you’re hovering over him, and you reach down to wrap one hand around his cock. He groans and bucks up into your touch, making you smile down at him. “Down, boy.”

He smirks back. “Thought me bein’ ‘up’ was the whole point?”

You roll your eyes and he laughs. The only retaliation you can think of is to sink down onto him, so you do. It sort of works, because he gasps and curses, but you’re also keening as you slowly take him all in.

Dean is _big._ Not huge, or so big that it’s scary, but he’s long and thick. He stretches your inner walls deliciously, and you can feel yourself fluttering around him, your muscles contracting to accommodate his girth. It’s incredible.

He lets you set your own pace, which you’re grateful for. When you’re fully seated, your ass flush against his thighs, you both moan. Despite the stretch, you don’t take any time to adjust, you want to _feel it,_ so you start to move back up almost immediately. You set a fast pace, moaning loudly as you move.

Dean shifts beneath you, planting his feet on the bed to give him leverage to fuck up into you. You cry out, digging your nails into his chest, and his hands tighten on your hips. You move together, creating a hard, fast rhythm that’s quickly bringing you to the brink.

As much as you wish you could, you’ve never been able to come from just penetration. You meet his gaze, and something in your eyes must be desperate, because he’s moving one hand down to thumb at your clit again, making you clench down on him and cry out. _“Dean!”_

“Want you to come for me, Y/N,” he growls. “Come on, baby.”

He keeps murmuring encouragements and driving into you, his thick cock spreading you open and leaving you already feeling kind of achy and used. It’s only a few minutes before you’re coming so hard your vision whites out, your legs trembling and twitching, your pussy clamping down on him hard.

You think for a moment that you’ve fallen, but Dean has rolled to put you beneath him, somehow without separating your connection. You moan your approval as you tighten your legs at his hips and wrap your arms around his neck. He leans down to kiss you harshly, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. He takes his pleasure from your pliant, willing body, and you happily let him, whispering in his ear.

“Come on, Dean, come for me, you can do it-”

He gives you one, two, three more jarring thrusts before he stills above you, shuddering and dropping his head to rest on your collarbone. You run your fingers through his hair as his body works through the aftershocks, and you savor the warmth of him filling you up.

After what could be just a few moments, could be much longer than that, passes, he lifts his head and smiles blearily at you. “Shower?”

You smile back. “Shower.”

* * *

The next morning, Dean wakes up with a faceful of Y/N’s hair and her warm, soft body wrapped up in his own.

She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties. Her legs are tangled up with his, and her head rests on his bicep. Their arms are wrapped around one another, and quite frankly, Dean can’t remember the last time he was this comfortable, or the last time that he slept so well.

Unfortunately, nature is calling, so he starts to slow process of pulling away from her. She grumbles something cute and burrows back into the pillows, making him smile. He goes into the bathroom to take care of business.

As he washes his hands, he examines his reflection and thinks about last night.

Has he had more mind-blowing sex? Yeah, probably. More adventurous? Definitely. More connected to his partner? Hell, he spent a _year_ with Lisa, and he met Y/N yesterday, so yeah, he was more emotionally connected to Lisa.

But there was _something_ about last night, something that’s gonna make it hard to forget. Once he and Y/N go their separate ways (and he ignores the pang in his chest at the thought), last night is going to feature heavily in his spank bank. Maybe the way she looked at him, boldly showing off her body, with its scars and imperfections, somehow combining to make her flawless. Maybe the way she moved, confident in her ability here like she isn’t outside of the bedroom.

Hell, maybe it was just _her._

When he goes back into the bedroom, her eyes are open, and she’s staring at him sleepily. “Do we have to get up?” she asks softly.

He smiles and shakes his head. “Nah.”

She pulls herself out of bed anyway and heads into the bathroom. “Good.”

He gets back _into_ bed, and when she’s done in the bathroom, she crawls in next to him, cuddling up next to him and resting her head on his chest like she belongs there (and only part of him wishes that she did). He wraps an arm around her to keep her close, pressing an absent-minded kiss on the top of her hair that will make him blush like a virgin if he thinks about it too hard, so he doesn’t.

“Do we need to do anything today?” he murmurs.

“Nothing but wait for An.”

* * *

The next several hours see you and Dean doing very, very little, and it _freaks you out._

You cuddle on the bed next to him, watching _Dr. Sexy_ on your laptop. You order Chinese food and share potstickers while he tells you stories about hunting with Sam. You tell him about Anya, and you have no small amount of your own ridiculous hunting stories to share.

As it approaches afternoon, the topics of conversation get heavier. You learn about Mary Winchester and how she died, about John’s quest for revenge, the yellow-eyed demon, Sam’s demon blood, _all_ of it. It leaves you in awe, and you clutch at Dean tighter as he tells you. He lets you do that, and if he pulls you closer and buries his face in your hair hard, neither of you mention it.

Your own story isn’t nearly as interesting, but you tell him about your mom, about her death, hassling Bobby until he taught you, and Bobby introducing you to Anya. You tell him about Anya and her agoraphobia, about how she helps the way she does because she can’t bring herself to leave her home. Anya’s story is horrifying, but not yours to share, so you just tell him that he’ll have to ask her. He respects that, and you like him all the more for it.

So nothing actually _scary_ happens all day, but the way you feel around Dean? Yeah, that scares the shit out of you. You’ve never felt so comfortable with someone so quickly. You’ve fallen so easily into teasing him and laughing with him, it’s completely new to you. It freaks you out.

But it’s not _bad,_ and it’s not _permanent._ He’s going to leave after this case and so are you, and if your heart thumps painfully at the thought, you ignore it viciously. It doesn’t matter. You just bask in the warmth that seems to surround the two of you until Anya calls you that night to tell you that the time to strike at Marlene is tonight, and to get your rifle out of the trunk.

* * *

Marlene lives in an upscale neighborhood with her husband, the kind of place that has blocks and blocks and blocks of houses that are _almost_ identical on street names that are _almost_ identical. She lives at the bottom of the hill, luckily, and it’s easy to station yourself about a block away and get a clean shot of her front door through the scope.

You’re sitting in the Impala in the passenger seat with Dean sitting next to you. You have the rifle just an inch or so out the window, grateful for the cover of darkness. You’re looking at the magnified sight of Marlene’s home, waiting for her car to pull into the driveway.

His big hand is warm on your thigh, his steady breathing a reassuring background noise. Neither of you has mentioned what happens tomorrow morning, when the monster is dead and there’s nothing keeping the two of you together anymore. You weren’t under any illusions that this was long-term, or more than what it is, so you shove your disappointment down, down, down, ignoring the growing ache in your chest.

The sound of Marlene’s sensible four-door sedan makes you tense, but your hand is steady when you bring her front door into your center sights. She pulls into her driveway, and you wonder how she got here. She pulls a paper bag of groceries out of the backseat of her car, and you wonder if she suspects that she’s been caught. When she turns her back to you to unlock her front door, you pull the trigger and mourn the loss of life, no matter how necessary.

“Good shot,” Dean murmurs.

Marlene goes down almost anticlimactically. There’s just the _pop_ of the gun, but there’s a fancy, expensive silencer on it, so it’s subtle, soft. There’s a spreading stain on her back over her heart. She fell on top of her groceries.

You pull the gun back into the car and roll the window up quickly. Dean is looking at you without starting the car. You both agreed that it would be best to wait a few moments before charging off, let some of the possible attention die down before you move.

“That was… Weirdly simple,” he says slowly.

You shrug as you unscrew your silencer. “Hunting with An usually is.”

A silence descends, and you know it’s awkward, but you don’t know what to do about it. Well, you _know_ what to do. All you have to do is turn to him and tell him that last night was fun, as was today, and if he ever wants to do it again, you’re game, but you don’t want anything serious, so it would be best if you just left tonight and the two of you let whatever happens happens as far as meeting up again.

The problem is that _no_ part of you actually wants to say that. Sure, you might not want anything _serious,_ per se, but you don’t want to leave him alone tonight. You don’t want to sleep in your cold backseat with a comforter wrapped around you, reliving last night over and over again until you fall asleep. You don’t want to fight the urge to have Anya find his phone number and text him, to keep in contact with him, to try to stay with him. All of that sounds _exhausting._

But the thought of asking him if you can stay another night makes you break into a light sweat of dread, so you don’t mention it.

Until he does.

“So, stay one more night, make sure we got everyone?” His voice tries for casual, you’re not sure he makes it.

You stare at him for a second. _What?_ Yeah, it makes sense for one of you to stay behind and make sure that the hunt is over, that there’s no more danger to the people in this area, but for some reason, you never expected him to offer to let it be both of you.

You feel your lips curl into a smile. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Okay.”

* * *

You’re on your way back from the bar when it happens.

The two of you went out to celebrate a job well done. You lasted about an hour in the bar before Dean got handsy under the table and you made the executive decision to go back to the motel before both of you get arrested for public indecency.

He’s standing behind you as you try to open the motel door, murmuring filthy things in your ear, one hand working on the opening of your jeans and the other hand tweaking your nipple through your bra. You’re arching your back against him when you feel him suddenly retreat, leaving your clothes in a disarray.

His shout makes you flinch away, and you spin to see a man, Marlene’s husband, Dave, standing behind you, his chest heaving. He’s wearing a pair of dark chinos and a polo shirt, looking for all the world like a suburban dad who’s on his way to golf. However, with a sinking heart, you see that his eyes are flashing in reflection of the outdoor light.

 _“Hunters,”_ he snarls.

You don’t take any time to try to reason with him, because it’s pretty obvious to you that that’s a lost cause. You do try to reach into the waistband of your pants for your gun, but he’s on you before you get farther than a few inches.

Yeah, you kinda saw that coming.

What you did _not_ see coming, however, is that Dave’s _insanely_ strong. He grabs your arm and yanks, making you cry out as you feel your shoulder dislocate, easily as it was moving through butter.

 _Werewolf,_ your dazed mind provides.

You’re twisted around now, in a strange position, and Dave takes full advantage. He gives you a serene look, lifts one leg, and slams it down onto your leg. You shriek helplessly as your knee shatters under the pressure. Thick pieces of bone are jutting out from the inside of your broken limb. The scraping noise it makes against the denim of your jeans before it rips through sounds so _loud._

You’re not conscious much longer than that, the pain from your shoulder and leg combining to make it impossible to stay alert. The last thing you hear is Dean shouting your name and the explosion of a gunshot.

The world goes dark.

* * *

Dean is arguing with himself. On some level, he spends _most_ of his time arguing with himself, but this fight feels bigger than the others he’s had.

He’s sitting at Y/N’s bedside, watching her chest rise and fall with her breath. He was able to get her shoulder back in place, and he made a few calls about her leg. A nervous Hispanic woman named Diana, who’s sort of a hunter, but mostly a doctor, was in the area. Dean had to have Jody vouch for him, but Diana came and helped set Y/N’s leg, bandage the wounds, and put a sort of light cast on it that will make travel easier. She tried to insist that Y/N needed a hospital, but Dean wouldn’t budge.

He said that it was because of the money and the paperwork, but he knows that Y/N _despises_ hospitals. She hates being the center of attention like that, and if there’s a way to treat an injury or illness that doesn’t include a doctor, she’ll do it. So he insisted, and the doc rolled her eyes, fixed Y/N up, and pumped her full of enough drugs to let her sleep for a few hours.

Now, he’s waiting for Donna to show up to take over watch so he can go.

He doesn’t know what the hell he was getting at, playing house with Y/N even for a day. He knows that he’s toxic. He knows that he lets people get killed. If he hadn’t been thinking with his goddamn dick, he would have been keeping an eye on the parking lot, would have been able to put a bullet in Dave’s heart before he got anywhere close to them.

He’s got to go, it’s for her _safety._ She’s gonna get that, she’ll know why. Y/N’s a smart girl, she’s going to understand why he can’t stick around, and she’s not going to take it personally.

And if no part of him believes that, then that’s between him and himself. He’d rather her be hurt than _dead._

Yeah, Donna _really_ can’t get here quick enough.

* * *

Three weeks after your leg is broken, you’re packing up your stuff, much to Donna’s dismay.

“I just think ya need a scooch more time,” she frets.

“I’m gonna go crazy here, Donna. I’m already climbing the walls.” You tap the thick cast on your leg. “Plus, what else is this damn thing for, if not to get me up and moving quicker?”

Anya was able to put in a call to a local orthopedic specialist about your leg. You have no idea what she told the man, but he looked a little scared for his life when he came to your motel room. Either way, he had a buttload of equipment with him, and he used it to make you a fancy new cast, this one with hinges so you can sort of walk, the material durable and hard enough so you can get out of here whenever you’re ready.

He didn’t _say_ that, but that’s what you’re gonna _do._

“I won’t hunt,” you assure her. “I can barely move, I just…” You take a deep breath and do _not_ think about Dean. “I just can’t stay here.”

Donna’s eyes are warm and sympathetic when she looks at you. She understands. Those first few days after you were hurt, when she had enough pain medicine to keep you high as a fucking kite, you babbled on about everything that had happened in the last couple of days. She says it was cute.

It wasn’t until you sobered up a little a week in that you realized what had _really_ happened.

“Do you want me to come with ya?” she asks, gentle and unassuming. Donna is seriously the best.

But you shake your head. “No, I’m all right,” you lie. “Just restless. Been a while since I was in one place for this long, you know?” You smile, and it’s too tight, it’s wrong.

She doesn’t notice, or if she does, she doesn’t mention it. “All right, I guess. Let’s get ya set up, then.”

* * *

Sam has no idea what the fuck happened between his brother and Y/N, but he can’t currently decide whether he wishes it had never happened at all, or if he wishes it had never stopped.

Nothing’s really _different,_ per se. They still hunt. Dean still cooks dinner. He still bitches at Sam about his hair. He still pokes fun when Sam goes to help Eileen with a case, even though they’re both very aware that she’s more than capable of dealing with anything that comes her way on her own. He still tries to get Cas to eat human food or get comfortable or, in general, shed his angel-ness.

It’s just that he can tell that it’s going through the motions for Dean. Sure, he tries to get Cas to do human things, but he doesn’t really care about it. He cooks dinner, but it’s more about simple need to eat than nesting, or love of cooking. He teases Sam about his hair, but he’s barely looked Sam in the eye for a month now.

And when Sam goes to be with Eileen, no matter how thin their cover story, Dean may tease him out loud, but the pain in his green eyes makes it impossible to believe him.

So Sam doesn’t know if he wants to curse Y/N or find her and drag her back to the bunker like a caveman.

* * *

A week and a half after you leave Donna, which puts you at just a few days over a month since you’ve seen Dean, you’re still telling yourself that it doesn’t matter.

 _None_ of it matters. Not the comfort you drew from him, the relaxation you found with him, the way he smelled. Not the soft look in his eyes when he was staring at you, or his hard hands when he was pounding into you. Not the panicked sound of his voice when he knew you were injured, and not _the way he left you._

Certainly not the way he felt like home.

Because what do you know? Since you were sixteen years old, the word “home” has meant Bobby Singer’s guest bedroom, and then a series of never-ending motel rooms. How would you know what a home is? It’s impossible that in the few days you spent together, this man, who has done so much, _given_ so much, and received so very little in return, has become home to you. _Impossible._

That’s _crazy,_ because people don’t just _mean_ that much to you. Crazy, because you have never in your _life_ connected with someone like you did with Dean _fucking_ Winchester. With his stupid green eyes, and his stupid capable hands, and his lovely face, and his stupid, bright, loving soul, shining so much you fancy you can see it.

People don’t become home in two days, not for _you,_ not for someone who has so much looking people in the eye, talking to people, _relating_ to other people. Your only real friend is someone who can’t leave her _fucking_ house, for God’s sake!

And _how?_ How? How did he do this to you already? How did he make himself so necessary, so _essential_ in _two days?_

“Fuck,” you hiss, jerking the wheel so you pull onto the shoulder. “Goddammit.”

Because the thing is, no matter how scared you are (which is very), no matter how much you fear rejection (a lot), this has never happened to you before. You’ve never _yearned_ for a specific person this way before. Oh, sure, you’ve wanted to have _someone_ around, but not one person, not one specific person who you can’t get off of your mind.

Dean _fucking_ Winchester.

You’re hitting the “call” button before you even really know what you’re doing.

“Y/N?” Jody asks. “You all right? Donna said you took off too early.”

“What are the Winchesters hunting?”

A pause. “What?”

“What are Sam and Dean hunting right now?”

“Uh, I can check, but-”

“No, not like that. What big, apocalypse-causing thing are they currently trying to figure out how to hunt?”

Jody’s silent for a while, and you let her be. You can afford to let her be silent, because you will not be dissuaded from this.

“It’s called the Darkness.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, from what I gather, it’s like this…”

* * *

“Lebanon, Kansas.” Anya’s words are careful, but excited. “They’re in Kansas.”

You take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out. “Okay. I can do this.”

“Damn right you can,” she says immediately, all faith, no doubt. “He was an idiot for leaving you that way.”

Oh, Anya was _pissed._ Anya threatened Dean with everything from ruining his credit score (you’re not sure how effective that would be) to telling the authorities where he lives (which you wouldn’t have allowed no matter _how_ mad you were at him). Anya muttered something about “launch codes,” and if you’re not mistaken, your best friend was willing to nuke the midwest to punish Dean for leaving you in a motel room with a broken leg.

You’ve rarely been more grateful for her.

“An…” You take another deep breath. “What if he says, ‘no?’” you whisper. “What if he doesn’t want me?”

“Then you’ll come home to me, we’ll eat enough ice cream to drown an elephant in, and I’ll blow up his stupid underground whatever bunker in Kansas,” she says casually. You don’t think she’s kidding.

“I guess.”

“I’m serious,” she insists, her voice losing its levity. “If he doesn’t go for it, you come home to me to lick your wounds, and you’ll be all right. You’re gonna be okay if he doesn’t feel the same way, Y/N, but you’ve gotta try.” Her voice is watery at the end, and your own eyes are filled with tears. “You deserve someone who makes you happy, and if he’s it, you’ve gotta at least try to go get him.”

“You’re right,” you say softly.

“I usually am.”

* * *

It’s a Tuesday when you find the Men of Letters bunker. The sun is shining down on you as you limp up to the door. The Impala is nowhere to be seen, so you’re not one hundred percent sure he’s even home.

As you approach, you try to figure out what you’re going to say to him. You’ve been trying to come up with something for the past few hours, but you’ve got nothing. You have no idea what to say to him.

Honestly, it would probably best if you waited. You’re still pretty angry, you know, on top all of the fear and doubt. Anger is the easiest, though, the emotion that makes the most sense to you, so it’s hard not to let it overcome you. You want to have a rational discussion, though, to make him see reason, so you’re going to try to keep the shouting to a minimum.

That resolve lasts for about forty-five seconds.

When you get to the door, you pound on it with a fist. “Dean?” you shout. “Dean, it’s Y/N. Come let me in.”

Then there’s nothing, but there’s a _sense._ You have the unshakable feeling that he’s standing on the other side of the door, listening to you, not letting you in.

And suddenly, the anger is unstoppable.

“Oh, _fuck you!”_ you snap. “You know, this is _bullshit._ I know that I probably wasn’t the greatest, but you can’t honestly tell me that there wasn’t something there, and you just _bailed on me?_ You left me in a _motel room!_ With a _broken leg!_ With _Donna!”_ Your voice is rising, and part of you wants to stop, but you just barrel through that part, because fuck that. “And I understand that you’d be hesitant to involve more people in the fight for the Darkness, but I think we both know that I’m not just ‘more people,’” you sneer. “I’m damn good at my job, Dean Winchester, and _fuck you_ for not asking for my help, for _literally_ running away from me!” You frown. “Which, okay, I get that I started the whole ‘fleeing’ thing, but what the _fuck?_ I thought, I mean, I _know_ that there was _something,_ and you can’t convince me that it was one-sided, and I _know_ you’re just standing there, Dean, and are you _really_ going to make me _stand_ out here with a _broken leg?_ Because that is just a new level of-”

You’re cut off by a _clunk,_ and the big door swings open to reveal Dean, in a t-shirt and jeans. His feet are bare, and his breath is a bit labored.

“Wasn’t,” he says.

You frown. “Wasn’t what?”

“Just standing there,” he says, still gasping a little. “Heard you knock. I did, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck with the hand not holding the door open. “I was a little surprised, I guess, but I remembered you were hurt, and that you probably weren’t patched up yet, so I ran up here. I wasn’t. Uh. Just standing. On the other side of the door.”

“Oh.” _Well, then._ “That kinda takes the wind out of my sails a little,” you say honestly.

His lips quirk up at the corner, the barest hint of a smile. “Sorry.”

You frown. “My point stands, though. You…” You swallow hard. “You left.” As much as you want it to come out strong and angry, it comes out as a sad whisper.

There’s pain on his face, shining in his eyes. “Yeah, I just…” He sighs. “Y/N, I’m not good for people, I-”

“If I don’t let my self-loathing destroy whatever it is we’re doing here, then you don’t get to let yours do it, either.”

Because you’ve thought a lot about this, about the reasons he left. Of course, the reasons that came to mind first were to do with your own shortcomings. No matter how easy it was between the two of you, you _are_ super awkward, and you _don’t_ look like a model, and you really _do_ tend to work best on your own.

There was just that sliver of a chance, though, just a _chance_ that he left because of _him._ That he left because, even though he’s gorgeous and charismatic and athletic and strong, maybe he feels about himself the way you feel about yourself.

If that’s the case, you suddenly understand Anya’s big problem with your own self-esteem.

He just looks at you for a long time, and you want to let him, you really do, but your leg is starting to ache, and you drove through the night to get here, so you’d like to know for sure if he’s going to invite you in or if you’re gonna need to go find a motel.

You open your mouth to complain, but he speaks before you get the chance.

“This fight, it’s dangerous.”

You look at him critically before nodding. “I know.”

“It’s… It’s big. Not monster of the week stuff.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I… Ain’t exactly easy to live with.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. I’m picky about the kitchen, but I’m a slob when it comes to dirty clothes. I drink too much and sleep too little. I cuss a lot, and I kinda…” He swallows hard. “I haven’t had a shot at a real, grown-up relationship in, like, six years. I dunno if I’ll be any good at it.”

It’s your turn to swallow. “Dean, we don’t have to… I mean, I can just help you fight the darkness. We don’t have to jump into anything… Uh, relationship-wise. I can take the couch, or-”

He huffs out a soft laugh. “No, baby, you’re sleeping in my bed.”

Your entire body relaxes from a tension you didn’t realize you were carrying. _He wants me here._ He’s protesting and throwing up caution signs because he’s scared that you’re coming into this without having the full picture. Which, of course, is true, but you’re all right with that. You have no idea what it’s like to live with Dean, but you’ve become convinced, in your time apart, that it will be preferable to living without him, no matter what gross or irritating habits he has.

Your lips curve into a smile. “Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- All feedback is appreciated. The good, the bad, and the ugly, I welcome it all.  
> \- Anya's hacking/computer abilities may seem enhanced and spooky and unrealistic to you, and that’s because I have never in my life hacked anything, so I probably took some heavy liberties.  
> \- I don't speak Greek, so take that part with a Google Translate sized grain of salt.  
> \- This feels like a good time to let you know that I write Destiel, too, under a different username. I don't know why I felt the need to put a different name on it, it just felt better that way. Anywho, I write under [TheReluctantShipper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper) for Destiel, if that's more your flavor.  
> \- Also, come see me on [tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kbeautimous) I only bite if asked nicely.


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